


The Spaces between Us

by pushingcrazies



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They know it’s been a really bad case when even Sherlock feels the need for a drink after it’s all over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spaces between Us

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for oftortoises ages ago, but somehow I missed it when transferring my fics from Tumblr to AO3.

They know it’s been a really bad case when even Sherlock feels the need for a drink after it’s all over.  They trudge to the pub without speaking, images of dead children floating in their heads.  Sally is trying not to imagine her niece as one of the victims; Lestrade is doing the same with his children.  John remembers all the dead and injured kids he saw in Afghanistan, while Sherlock mentally berates himself for not being better, faster, _smarter_.

They take turns buying rounds, though no one protests when Sherlock accidentally buys twice in a row using Mycroft’s credit card.  One round in, they still don’t talk.  They sit at their table, not looking each other in the eye and trying to convince themselves that at least they caught the bad guy this time.  As if that makes up for the lives lost in the first place.  Two rounds in, Lestrade remembers something funny he overheard the other day.  When he comments on it, their laughter is nervous and stilted.  Who are they to have fun when four little girls are dead?

After round three, John realises Sherlock has been drinking virgin Bloody Marys for the last two rounds, and goes to get him a shot of absinthe as revenge.  They can’t help but roar with laughter as he obligingly chokes it down.  Lestrade belatedly asks if he’s had anything to eat for the last few days, and they all think about the effects of absinthe on an empty stomach, but none of them could give enough of a fuck at this point.  They buy an order of chips for the table to share, which they attack with shameful gusto.

After round four, they become a little more raucous.  Sally begins telling a story about Dimmock and this little old lady from Dublin; she emphasizes her point with large, sweeping hand gestures that result in her nearly braining Lestrade.  The tension of the last week drains from them as they all but roll around on the floor with laughter.

Round five finds Lestrade giving neck massages to everyone.  He starts with John, who gives an obligatory protest but succumbs after a few deft movements.  Everyone knows that Lestrade gives the best massages and is only too generous with them once he’s had a few drinks.  After a few minutes, Sally demands that she wants one, too, and Lestrade is only too happy to comply.  When her turn is over, Lestrade looks at Sherlock with a grin on his face; Sherlock tries to ward him off, but he advances anyway, hands held in front of him like he’s going to pounce on Sherlock with outstretched claws.  He ends up chasing Sherlock around the table a couple of times, like two overgrown toddlers playing Duck-Duck-Goose.  Sherlock ends up winning only because the bartender comes over to have a “chat” with them.  Never mind that Lestrade is twice as old as he is, and never mind that he could arrest the little twerp in a heartbeat.  Nevertheless, Lestrade sits back down, looking like a chastised little boy.

Round six finds them all starting to drift a bit.  The giddiness from the remaining adrenaline mixed with alcohol is beginning to wear off, and Sally cannot stop yawning.  She only drinks half of her White Russian before gathering up her stuff and saying her goodbyes.  She’s more than a little tipsy, but she promises she’s only going just around the corner to her sister’s flat.  Lestrade offers to walk her home, but he’s pretty out of it as well.  He’s been drinking far stronger alcohol than anyone else at the table, and Sally makes John and Sherlock promise they’ll get him home safe.  They assure her that they will, and she wobbles her way out the door.  Sherlock is ready to leave as well, but Lestrade wants to finish his drink and John is enjoying being stationary after running around all of London.

They eventually make it back to 221B, in spite of much stumbling and stupidity.  Halfway there, Lestrade breaks into a hearty chorus of “Blow the Man Down,” which sets John into another round of giggling.  They tromp up the stairs and burst into the living room, all drunkenly ungraceful and loud.  Lestrade makes some half-hearted protests that he ought to go back to his own flat, but Sherlock and John override him, saying he might as well just stay with them.  They go through this every time, but it’s all for show by this point.  Who, exactly, they’re putting the show on for, however, remains a mystery.

John pours them each a glass of water and they shuck off their shoes where they stand.  Each will have a fun time in the morning attempting to remember where they left them, but for now it’s easier to just kick them off and forget.  None of them feel like navigating another staircase, so they all three go into Sherlock’s room and collapse on his bed.  It’s such a large bed, far too large for just one person who rarely feels the need to sleep, but with three full-grown men occupying it, it suddenly feels like it’s too small.  Still, they make it work, fitting together like perfectly cut puzzle pieces.

Sherlock falls asleep almost instantaneously, without bothering to take off his clothes.  John is all but unconscious, but he still manages to undress both himself and Sherlock with Lestrade’s help.  They each wear only their boxers, though John knows from experience that even those will have disappeared by the end of the night.  John uses the toilet one last time, then gets on the bed beside Lestrade, who has claimed the middle for himself.  Sherlock has turned over in his sleep and is curled up against Lestrade, his head pillowed on the DI’s chest.  Lestrade presses a fierce, protective kiss onto the top of Sherlock’s head.  John snuggles up against Lestrade as well, his hand tangling with Sherlock’s.  Lestrade is their anchor after cases like this; they need him more than either of them is willing to admit.  And he needs them just as much, something which is has no reservations about expressing.

John closes his eyes; he feels a pair of warm lips against his hair and he smiles.  He knows when they wake, it will be to a passing sense of awkwardness mixed with the strength to face a new day, a sense that once upon a time none of them would have felt after such an awful case.  There will be hard-ons and hurried hand-jobs, and maybe if John’s really lucky Lestrade will suck him off while Sherlock rolls his eyes at their base instincts.  It’s not love, not really; it’s deeper than that.  A sense of need and possession and dependency far greater than any silly label like “love.”


End file.
